


Teaching The Genius

by Mama_Holmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Constipation, Emotional Sherlock, M/M, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Psychology, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-14 13:26:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5745547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mama_Holmes/pseuds/Mama_Holmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock's brother sends him to psycological therapy, he doesn't believe that the boring ordinary man sitting in the opposite armchair can really change something in his well orginized life.<br/>Little does he know - can a self diagnosed sociopath really learn how to love?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

The two men sat across from each other in two matching comfortable armchairs. They both had black hair, but their eyes were wildly contrasting; the man in the plaid shirt had dark eyes, while the other had bright and his eyes moved across the room feverishly, scanning every detail and storing it away in his vast mental database. A few long seconds later, he resigned himself to lock gazes with the other man, crossing his legs and resting his forearms on the armrests in order to give off the illusion of being calm.  
They both knew he wasn't, not really.  
"Why am I here?" His blue eyes glittered.  
"You are here so I can help you learn how to live in peace with your feelings," the other answered. "Sherlock, My name is Doctor Brown, but you may call me Christopher."  
"Why am I here?" Sherlock asked again.  
Christopher Brown laced his fingers over his lap. "I told you, you are here to go through a therapy."  
"And who says that I need therapy?"  
Christopher smiled. "He knew you'd ask that."  
Sherlock tensed and leaned forwards. "Who knew? Who's 'he'?"  
"Your brother."  
Sherlock exhaled with contempt, rolled his eyes and stood up. He turned on his heel and started heading towards the door, but Christopher continuing to talk to his back. "Your parents are worried." As he realized that it had no effect on him, he desperately called out: "Your friends are worried!"  
Sherlock froze in place. "I don't have friends," he said quietly. His back was still turned to the psychologist, but his head tilted forward and down.  
"Your brother said you have a few, actually. There's Molly and Mrs. Hudson, and then there's Greg –"  
"Greg?"  
"Lestrade."  
Sherlock nodded coldly, eyes flashing. "None of them are worth sixty minutes of complete boredom locked up in a tiny room accompanied by an utterly average person. No offence." He continued walking towards the exit and put a pale hand on the faded bronze door knob.  
The therapist ignored what he said. "And then there's John, of course."  
Sherlock froze again. "John?"  
Christopher nodded, though he was perfectly aware of the fact that Sherlock could not see this gesture, as it was done behind his back. "Your brother says he's the one who agonizes over you the most."  
Sherlock let go of the doorknob and turned around sharply. He then walked to his chair in a few quick steps. Once settled into the comfortable cushion, he gave the doctor a quick look over and his expression became unreadable, "I'll tolerate this hour with you, Dr. Brown, only because John wants me to. But nothing else will make me continue with this… therapy."  
Christopher smiled. "Deal."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to jenna_cath on Instagram for beta reading! :)

John Watson was standing in the kitchen of 221B and organizing the freshly bought groceries in the pantry. He wondered how Sherlock's appointment went, and just when he started planning an escape path – just in case Sherlock finds out about the information he delivered to Dr. Brown earlier that day – there was a soft sound of steps coming from the corridor downstairs.  
He sighed and closed the pantry door. Now he might get some answers. Well, at least the bits of information he can retrieve from Sherlock – and this was a hard task to manage.  
The steps came closer, almost unheard on the carpet.  
He was still facing the pantry in silence, waiting for Sherlock to be the first to talk. Years of acquaintance with the consulting detective have taught him that this was the right thing to do when talking to him. For some reason, it made him feel more comfortable, more relaxed, more in control of things. Only those who really knew Sherlock knew how much he loved being in control, and only those who've learned to understand him as well knew how terrifying losing it was for him.  
There weren't many people that actually knew Sherlock Holmes, and even fewer people who could really understand him. If those on the first kind could be easily counted on one hand's finger, the other kind had only three people in the whole world: Molly Hooper, John Watson, and – even though Sherlock himself has hated the very idea – his brother, Mycroft.  
John turned around at last, when the silence became unbearable. He didn't know what he was expecting to see when he glanced around the room, but he certainly didn't expect Sherlock's penetrating stare, being aimed to him from two powerful laser crosshairs shaped as two electric-blue shaded eyes. John's stopped breathing for a moment and he stumbled backwards under the stare and grabbed the pantry knob. Sherlock's eyebrows were wrinkled, as if trying to deduce a new and foreign substance.  It surprised John. There weren't many things that were unfamiliar to Sherlock, and he felt this shiver going down his spine as he realized that this thing Sherlock was observing – this new and foreign thing – was John himself.  
After a few long moments of silence, Sherlock blinked and walked away.  
John was suddenly aware to the fact that he was holding the pantry door like his life depended on it, then left it and let his hand drop beside his body. He scratched the nape of his neck with his other hand, then let out a sigh and continued organizing the groceries.  
  
Half an hour later, having finished organizing and eating his well improvised supper (he didn’t even consider asking Sherlock if he wanted to eat, this as well coming from years of acquaintance with him), he walked up the stairs and into his bedroom. He couldn't stop himself from glancing up the corridor which led to Sherlock's bedroom; the detective has locked himself up in his room – or at least he has assumed so, as the bathroom door was wide open and the bedroom's was closed. He sighed and climbed the stairs to his bedroom, hoping he hasn't done something that harmed his flatmate.

The next time the two met was late at night. John went down the stairs on his tiptoes, doing his best not to wake Sherlock, who was always sleeping at that floor and would wake at the slightest of noise. He was going to get himself some late night snack, but his plans changed as he saw Sherlock sitting crossed legged in his armchair, the violin's bow in his right hand and the violin on his lap.  
"Jesus, Sherlock. You scared me."  
"Is what Brown told me today true?" Sherlock asked with no excessive manners.  
"What did he say?" John asked. "I have no way of knowi – Just a minute, how did you even know I was awake?"  
"The slot under your door allows some of the light to go through. I stopped playing when your figure created a shadow that blocked it, because I assumed you were to be approaching and wanted to go through my thoughts again before saying them out loud. Now, is it true?"  
John sighed. "Well, in order to answer that, I need to know what he told you."  
"He said that you're worried about me."  
"Oh." John went silent for a moment. "Yes, of course I'm worried about you."  
"Why?"  
John frowned. "What do you mean by 'why'?"  
"Why are you worried about me?"  
John sighed again. "Well, you've barely been eating the last few years, and I'm afraid you have some sort of an eating disorder. I don't have the authority to determine, however, since you refuse to let me examine you. I don't know exactly what happened in your childhood, but I'm afraid it changed you. I think perhaps you could use – "  
"Let me rephrase that. Why do you care about… _me_?"  
"Are you kidding?" John laughed, and then got serious at once. "Oh, my God, you're not kidding. Sherlock, you're one of the people who matter to me most in this world." He stopped and thought for a moment, then added: "Actually, at this point, you are _the most_ important person to me. Of course I care about you."  
Sherlock stared at him in disbelief, and John could pick up mild sadness in those regularly-emotionless blue eyes. Too much sadness – He closed up the space between them in two large steps and pulled the detective into a tight embrace.  
Sherlock's body stiffened and he was clearly surprised, but a few moments later John could feel his arms wrapping awkwardly around his shoulders and back.

"Boys, I thought you were sleeping," said an amused voice behind them.   
John retreated immediately. "Um, yes," he coughed. "We were just – "  
"I needed to figure something out," Sherlock said. "I was thinking."  
Mrs. Hudson laughed. "Well, off to bed, you two. Especially you, John, you've got a proper job, not like this young boy who thinks that money comes out of thin air – "  
"I _do_ have a job, for God's sake! The only consulting detective in the whole world, thank you very much. "  
She laughed again and winked at John. "He couldn't even afford this place if I wouldn't love him so much – and if you weren't here, of course." She then turned to Sherlock. "What you need is a proper job, if you ask me."  
"Good thing I'm not asking you, then. Great to see you, Mrs. Hudson, good night!" He pushed her out the door lightly and closed it.  
John was speechless in front of this rude behavior, but he just sighed and shrugged. He got used to his friend's behavior, frankly.

Sherlock lay down on the sofa and stared at the ceiling, his bright eyes fixed on one distant point.  
John wondered if he should sit down on the armchair, which was comfortable but too far away from Sherlock, which might complicate conversing. Ultimately he chose to bring a chair from the kitchen.  
The thought of just going upstairs and getting some sleep went through his mind, but was soon forgotten, just like the idea of getting a night snack.  
"So, how did the meeting go?" John asked.  
"Fine," Sherlock said without shifting his gaze from the ceiling.

 _The two men were sitting in silence and examining each other._  
"So, tell me a bit about yourself."  
"Why? You already know all there is to know. I bet Mycroft – " He spat the name – "Had already told you everything you need to know about my… bad habits."  
"And yet," Christopher Brown continued pleasantly, "I want to hear this from you. Do you mind if I record the rest of the appointment? I tend to do so with patients, and I need your permission – "  
Sherlock waved his hand dismissively and the psychologist turned the recording device on.

"Did you tell him anything?"  
"Not anything you don't already know."  
"No, I mean – did you tell him anything important? Did you manage… you know, to open up?"

 _Sherlock looked around through narrowed eyes. "Fine, have it your way. I'm Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective. The only one in the world. Unique? Yes. Special? Oh yes. My roommate is John Hamish Watson, my landlady is Martha Hudson. I have two parents, my older brother is Mycroft – "_  
"I've heard that you're the wisest person in Britain."  
Sherlock silenced. "Possibly," he said after thinking about it.  
"So, Sherlock, as the wise person you are, can you tell me what the most important thing you’ve told me by now is?"  
His eyebrows wrinkled. "There wasn’t anything in it that you didn’t know before."  
"And yet, there was one thing there that started getting close to what I'm looking for in this stage of our acquaintance."  
Sherlock shook his head and Christopher sighed.  
"You said you were special."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. "No, not anything I can think of."  
John rested his elbows on his knees. "Well, that's alright. It's your first meeting; there are very few people who manage to open up this fast."

 _Sherlock said nothing else for the following thirty-seven minutes, and Christopher Brown was sensitive enough not to push him. He doodled something in his notebook when Sherlock's gaze was shifting around the room._  
"I tend to define myself as a high functioning sociopath," he finally said. "You can stop spinning round in your description, you can just use the words."  
The therapist raised an eyebrow. He's never seen a patient with the ability to read his handwriting upside down, by the hand movements alone. He managed to hide his surprise and nodded, half a smile on his face.  
"I prefer to avoid definitions at this part. We'll see, perhaps we can define you differently at the end of the process."  
Sherlock chuckled ludicrously and with contempt and Doctor Brown went back to doodling.


	3. Chapter 3

One week is a long period of time, long enough for Sherlock to have decided about whether or not he should continue with the treatment, and change his mind about ten times.

Eventually, he showed up at Dr. Brown's clinic exactly five minutes before his scheduled appointment.

Christopher Brown was sitting in his armchair and typing something into his mobile phone. When he looked up and saw Sherlock, a mildly surprised, impressed even,  expression

went on his face.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes. I'm delighted to see you again."

Sherlock nodded briefly and approached the other armchair. "I strongly debated today's appointment."

"I'm glad you decided to make it. It's very brave of you. So, how are you feeling today?" Sherlock frowned. "I suppose I'm safe and sound, physically and cognitively."

"And emotionally?"

"Well, there doesn't seem to be any particular reason to worry, since my functions appear normal – "

"No." "No?"

"It's not what you _feel_ , Sherlock. Try. Really do try." "I feel… that I'm… alright."

"Still not it."

Sherlock sighed, annoyed. "You aren't making any sense. I said that I _feel_ alright." "Try using 'emotion words'. Say you're happy, sad, scared. Love."

"I… No, can’t do this." "Yes, you can."

"I don't _know_ how," Sherlock admitted. Christopher sighed, "Alright. At your own pace."

They were silent for a few long moments until Christopher finally understood that Sherlock was not very likely to find a way to express himself, and then he moved on to the next question. "So, Sherlock, what was it that made you make up your mind and come here today?"

 

_"Of course I'm worried about you." "Why are you worried about me?"_

_"Sherlock, you're one of the people who matter to me most in this world. Actually, at this point, you are the most important person to me. Of course I care about you."_

 

He shrugged. "I'd like to give this… _therapy_ thing a chance, you see. You've somehow managed to interest me on our previous appointment." _Not the full truth, but not a whole_

_lie, either. Good enough to satisfy his need to keep the most important information to himself, as well as the universal unsaid agreement that one should never lie to their therapist._

The psychologist nodded, "How was your week?"

"As usual. Three homicides,  you've probably read about them in the papers, I helped capture some serious psychopaths there and that's it. Work. That's what I mainly do." "Isn't it a bit too much for you, every now and then?"

"No, I love it. It makes me… feel alive."

 

Christopher Brown grinned and laced his fingers together. "Now we're making progress. Tell me more about your work, then."

"I already told you, I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world. Investigating crimes and solving mysteries. I can deduce dozens of facts off of an object, or a statement, that no other would even bother observing.  I can read a person in seconds, know what they did, what they ate, where they'd been and whom they associated with in the

previous days or weeks. I've got a master's degree in chemistry without attending a single class. Standard IQ tests don't contain my scores in their highest scale."

"That's not exactly what I meant. Okay, and what would your friends say about what you've just told me?"

"I don’t have any ... " He stopped mid sentence, shutting down the automatic response he got used to. "John would say I'm showing off."

Christopher smiled. "And how do you feel when he says you're showing off?" "I try to… stop showing off."

"This means you care."

"Yes."

"And what would they say about that?"

"My brother would call this a disadvantage." Silence.

 

"So, how was the meeting?" John was in the middle of making himself a cup of tea as

Sherlock walked through the door, hanging up his coat behind it. "Fine," he answered and ran a hand through his wind blown hair.

 

_"Try using words that express emotions this week," Christopher Brown asked. "Don't say that you're fine, say you're happy, or sad, or confused, or scared. Try **feeling** instead of **thinking**."_

 

He stopped for a second and thought. "It was… no, damn it, I don't _understand_ it," he said under his breath.

"What did you say?" John asked from the kitchen. "Nothing, it's just… I can't do what he asked me to do."

John stared at him for a few lingering moments, then left his tea and approached him. He

squeezed Sherlock's upper arm for a brief moment in a sympathetic gesture, then let his hand drop. "What has he asked you to do?"

Sherlock stared off in this distance, as if he's only half in the room. He then took a sharp breath and turned to look at John. "What are 'emotion words', John?"

John looked surprised. "I don't know… sadness, happiness, embarrassment, excitement? These ones?"

"Yes, those. How do you… use them? Are there certain rules?"

John narrowed his eyes. "Oh, I get it. This is the task you've got, isn’t it? Well, you'll

probably be glad to know there aren't any rules. Actually, this might not make you glad, considering this is _you_ we're talking about. You just need to… _feel_ something, then put

into words. It's really not that complicated. Try it."

"I'm not sure I understand."

John sighed. "You don't need to understand, this is your mind talking. Emotions don’t come from the brain. Let's start with something simple." He walked into the kitchen,

 

grabbed the two cups of tea and went back to the sitting room. He handed one to Sherlock, and waited until he sipped it. "Now, describe what this tea makes you feel." Sherlock took another sip. "Well, it's rather hot, slightly tingles at the lips and upper palate. I'm capable of feeling the liquid until about mid esophagus, where its temperature

finally stabilizes with my body temperature. It tastes like… tea, I can't define it properly. A

bit stronger than the way Mrs. Hudson makes it, but still good."

"It's a great description, Sherlock, but those are _facts_." Sherlock exhaled in frustration. "Still?"

"Try again."

John started laughing uncontrollably as he saw Sherlock's helpless face. "Alright, let me show you how I’d do it." He took a sip, then closed his eyes and said: "The tea leaves a certain trail of warmness, gives a homelike, protective feeling. It relaxes me, its taste makes me happy and it brings me back to the long forgotten college days. Nostalgic. I'd come back to my dorm after a long day of activities, drink tea and relax in front of the telly with a cup of hot tea." He opened his eyes again and looked at Sherlock. "See? Happiness, relaxation, nostalgia. Feelings."

Sherlock sighed. "You make it look so easy."

"Well, it really is easy to me. But look who's talking, Sherlock, you make those deductions look like the simplest thing in the universe."

"It really is simple! All one has to do is make some simple observations, then connect the dots – "

"You need to understand that just the way that expressing your feelings is hard to you, this thing is difficult for other people. Now, would you like to try this again?"

Frankly, trying this again was the last thing Sherlock wanted to do, but he nodded for John. John asked him what he feels about Mrs. Hudson.

"She's… useful. Looks good for her age, though it's noticeable that she's been neglecting herself lately. She behaves like a typical mother – "

" – Great, Sherlock. Let's stick with that. How _does_ she behave? What makes her behave like that?"

"She's both worried, but can stay calm when we come back late." "Splendid! _Worry_ , that's an emotion."

"Well, she makes us tea in the morning, apparently it doesn't make itself, smiles whenever

I play the violin, like a mother who sees her child – "

" – Smiles how? Try guessing what she feels when she hears you play." "She… thinks it's good?"

"No, Sherlock – I mean, I'm sure she does, but she really _does_ feel like a second mother to

you. As you said, for her it's like seeing her child playing. She feels _proud_ , Sherlock. And love. She loves you."

Sherlock took another sip of his tea, turned around and sat down in his armchair. "I don't like this. I don't succeed! I _hate_ not succeeding, it makes me feel so useless. It's extremely frustrating."

John looked at him, astonished. "Sherlock… you've made it." Sherlock looked almost as surprised. "Really? Did I?"

John nodded. He thought for a moment, then mumbled: "Negative feelings… this seems to be easier. Well, that's a beginning, too." He looks straight into Sherlock's eyes, smiled

and sat across from him. "Try… describing Mycroft to me."

 

Sherlock found it easy to open up to John, considering it was, well, John. "He's rubbish. Extremely annoying. He constantly makes me feel small and helpless. He insists on treating me like a child. It's invidious, humiliating, even. Besides, he's not as smart as he claims to be."

John's smile widened. "You've made it. You really have succeeded. I'm so proud of you, Sherlock."

Proud of him. John is proud of him.

Sherlock's lips stretched into a smile. "I think I'm… happy now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for reading! Leave a comment, please ♥  
> Thanks again to jenna_cath on instagram for beta reading ♥


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